


lick your heart and taste your health

by midsommur



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: F/M, orig posted on my tumbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midsommur/pseuds/midsommur
Summary: something about it all feels juvenile—the way they’ve essentially snuck off from the party, from their responsibilities.
Relationships: Batman/Reader, Bruce Wayne/Reader
Kudos: 25





	lick your heart and taste your health

“I don’t think they’re gonna like me, Bruce,” she tells him, with arms wrapped around her chest, holding up the silk material of the short dress she was wearing to keep it from falling, due to its unzipped state. Wordlessly, she motions for him to complete the task for her. He complies, like an obedient lapdog, who’s collar got snapped all too suddenly.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” he tells her, dragging the zipper only a short way up. The garment was practically backless, made of some fine black satin. The thin straps on her shoulders were adorned with crystals, matching the choker that clasped tightly around her throat. She was a feast for the eyes, a pleasure to behold—one he could marvel at for days on end. Her worries and concerns over what others thought about her, the idea that anyone wouldn’t like her, _her_ of all people, baffled him.

“I’m not a good actor like you. Youve always been such a poser, you know, and you’ve only gotten better at it.

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re funny. They’ll like you for sure, with that humor.”

“Fuck off,” she retorts, no longer interested in the particulars of the conversation. It was clear he wouldn’t indulge himself in her insecurities, simply because of how unfounded he saw them to be. And so, because he wouldn’t ease her worries, and instead chose to ridicule them, she’d have to resort to alternatives to alleviate the struggles of socializing with Gotham’s elite.

**

Solace is found in a bottle of cabernet sauvignon—so red its black, tangy acid taste leaving her tongue dry but her head dizzy and her throat warm.

And she’s not quite sure how long it’s been, how much longer they have to be here, why they were even here in the first place. All she really wants is to leave the current ongoing conversation about _stocks_ , or whatever the fuck, and go find Bruce, wherever he might be. She takes her polite leave from the discussion, dipping out of the lavishly decorated room and into the equally adorned banquet hall. She finds him shortly after a brisk walk down the hall and poking her head into a couple abandoned rooms she assumed were used for storage until they were needed for other parties or festivities. The details didn’t matter—he was tucked away in a hidden corridor, speaking low into the phone.

His truancy wasn’t strange, not anymore, at least. It had almost become a joke, a running gag, the way Bruce would constantly disappear throughout these sorts of things, like a child skipping school. Some guests would place bets on how soon he’d take his leave, or if he’d be absent all together. And as inconsequential as the quips and wisecracks were, there was something in them that he felt justified the claim that he’d never be good enough, either half of him. Both equal parts man and myth, and the fallacies in each of them. Bruce struggled with both images he held, the divide not a clean slice but instead a jagged split, severed and carved haphazardly down his center. The cracked identity. The ineffable struggle of two personas, the push and pull of selfhood and ego.

Neither were good enough. It was yet to be perfected—though it felt, oftentimes, like it never would amount to that.

Bruce seems to notice her presence rather quickly, mumbling a low, “I’ll call you back,” into the speaker. He shoves the phone away into his pocket, turning to face her with a faux grin.

“Hey, I was just—”

“You were not,” she gasps, reaching for his pocket in a less-than-graceful manner, stumbling over her feet as she lunges for the phone. It’s his burner, which is only further proof that he was, in fact, working when he said he wouldn’t be. “You _were_!”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns, tilting his head quizzically at her stupor daze. She wasn’t this intoxicated the last time he’d checked on her, but then again, he had been busy—tending to the guests, appeasing his loyalties, all while discreetly communicating with Alfred as they worked through the case and all the new leads. “I just needed to hear what—”

“I think you need a break,” she interrupts, taking his hand in hers. She considers it for a moment, the weight of it in her grasp, how large it was against her own. She always found herself admiring him, whether it be his physicality or mentality—it went without saying that Bruce was something clearly not of this world, this impossibly handsome man.

He knows that fighting her while she’s drunk is futile. She had this scathing habit of fighting any relentless point, no matter how fruitless it may be, especially when she was under the influence. Bruce squeezes her hand, an attempt to ground her and get her to finish her point, as she was clearly lost in thought—her eyes transfixed by the tiny white scars on his pale hands, the blue veins and the bruised knuckles alike.

She blinks back up to him, unfocused eyes now staring clear and certain into his own. With an equanimous poise, she drops his hand and instead takes his tie in her fist, tugging it out of his suit to pull him down to her line of sight.

“I have to show you something.”

Her expression is entirely earnest, almost ironically so. He could laugh at how serious she was attempting (and succeeding) to come across as, but he could read her like no other—this guise she pulled on of sobriety and sincerity, just like how he pulled on all his masks and charades. He was rubbing off on her, his determined girl. It made him feel something like pride; they were one and the same.

Bruce is just so lovesick, almost frustratingly so. It’s his infatuation with her that sends him following her with no protests, back hunched as he trails behind her—not like had much of a choice, as she was still tugging him along. Her strength is nothing like his (to even begin to compare the two would be unfair), and he could easily pull away from her clutch, but decides to enlighten her in her befuddled state.

Lost in adoration, he barely recognizes the room she’s pulled him into—not until the lights flicker on, does he realize she’s brought him into a bathroom. It’s one of those small ones that looks like it was pulled off the page of a Z Gallerie catalogue, almost too lavish to be a bathroom, the kind with rocks in the sink and purple orchids and Pollock paintings.

There’s this familiar glint in her eyes that he catches when he looks down at her, mischievous and seductive and enticing; then again, the sight of her in that dress alone has him close to salivating. She’s got this hold on him, ensnared with her beguiling beauty—and for a brief moment, he has half a mind to be aggravated by her, or at the very least irritated. Because it simply wasn’t fair, for someone to be so transfixing, have men at her heels, willing to do whatever she asked at her beck and call. This pampered girl that got everything she wanted; it was only fair that he reminded her of her diffidence.

The subtle tug around his throat snaps his awareness back quickly, where he’s met with her smug grin. Something about it all feels juvenile—the way they’ve essentially snuck off from the party, from their responsibilities. It makes her feel young and reckless, reminiscent of all their times before, and the affection between them that still thrived, after all this time.

“Isn’t this romantic?” she teases, dragging him by his tie over to the marble sink. He’s quick to match her, strong hands hoisting her up onto it with a low growl in his throat as she pulls the tie loose from around his neck.

“Shut up,” Bruce grumbles, snatching the tie from her small hands. The harsh gesture on its own made it clear enough that he was taking charge, now, no longer at her will. He wads the fabric up in his fist before promptly shoving it into her open mouth. “ _Please_.”

He can’t quite see her smile in her mouth, what with having just gagged her and all, but he can see it in her eyes, the way the corners crinkle. She just loved this sort of thing, which makes him love it all the more—the sure knowledge of the fact allowing him to entertain these thoughts and act on them without guilt. It all came very naturally to them, like this was how it was always meant to be. His tender, careful abuse and her devout willingness to please, to be good for him, do whatever he said, whatever he wanted, whatever he asked.

“So cute,” he murmurs, his lips against her cheek, against her throat. “So cute drooling all over my tie in your mouth.” His hands move torturously slow down her body, the cool silk of the dress. Standing slotted between her legs, he has easy access to her thighs, split open for him wantonly—though it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. He carelessly hikes the dark colored fabric up over and around her hips, and just the thought of being taken like this, so recklessly, clothes so lecherously strewn on her body, made the moment feel all the more debauched. “You can’t even help it, baby,”

The fond name elicits a muffled, desperate sound from behind the gag of his tie in her mouth, so needy that it nearly makes him take pity on her, though not enough to act upon it. It was too early for such sympathies, not when she still needed to be reminded of her humility. He instead chooses to focus on her core, his long fingers intemperate as he kneels slightly before her to attend to her where she’s most deprived.

Yet just as he begins to truly begin his ministrations, she’s already writhing at his touch, his cold digits pressing into her inner thighs, into her cunt. It seemed that he would always have this effect on her, no matter their age, or where they were, or the facades they were meant to play at. Any time they’d slip away, whether it be in the privacy of their own intimate walls, to the near voyeuristic situations like this one—she would always come so close to unravelling from the simplest of things. He humbly surmounts it to her sensitivity, though it’s self-evident that Bruce was just undeniably proficient at catering to her concupiscent needs.

He has her whining now, or as close as she can get to whining, what with the tie muffling her and all. The feeling of his dexterous fingers within her sends her head colliding back against the mirror behind her, the noise startling the both of them. His eyes dart up, a stern gaze over his face. All she feels, then, is instant regret, never mind the dull pain throbbing in the base of her skull. She couldn’t focus on that, not when he was rising from where he knelt on the ground and up her body on the counter.

“You have to be quiet,” Bruce hums lowly, drawing his hands up her throat to cup her cheeks, cradling the sides of her face in his hands. His words seem almost too kind, especially given the fact that she’s gone against what was expected of her. “You think you can do that, baby? Think you can manage?”

She nods pathetically, so desperate it’s almost sad. He rubs his thumb against her cheekbone, the calloused pad rough on her smooth skin, and just as he praises her with a simple _good girl_ , the words barely having left his mouth, his hand pulls away to deftly smack her cheek.

He’s pulling the tie out from between her teeth before she can even register it’s gone, still reeling from the shock of the hit. She can feel the sting of it still radiating on her skin as she inhales her first lungful of air for the first time in what felt like ages.

Her head finds the cold glass once more, this time making sure it was soundless as the rise and fall of her chest begins to mellow out, a gentle decrescendo. In the time it took her to do this, Bruce had already hastily tugged his trousers down, just low enough to pull his hardened length out, briskly pumping it in his fist while splitting her thighs with his other hand, palm moving to rest flat against her thigh. With sudden, momentous urgency, his arm comes to wrap around the back of her waist, pulling her off of the mirror and closer to him, so that he could position their bodies together that much easier.

It wasn’t like she could protest—against his hands, his strength. There was comfort in his achingly cruel touches and the bruising grip he held onto her with, digging bruises deep enough to last a lifetime. It hurts and it is wonderful.

A breathy mewl finds its way out of her parted lips as he anchors her legs around his waist, pinned in place with a heavy fist. And then suddenly, all too quickly, he’s everywhere. He’s inside her, stretching and filling, and he’s tightening his grip around her back, hauling her impossibly closer into him. And when she inadvertently cries out at the formidable sensation of his fast-paced thrusts into her, he’s quick to silence her with his fingers prodding into her mouth.

“Since you can’t _listen_ ,” Bruce grunts, pressing three digits flat against her tongue while maintaining his vigorous momentum. Both of his offending artifices prod deeper, his fingers and his cock thick in their own regards, further into her than she ever thought they could reach, the harrowing thought momentarily distressing her, to the point that her eyes roll into the back of her head as he brutally fucks her against the mirror.

She has half a mind to realize that he’s got a perfect view, now. Her body before him in the flesh, and the reflection behind her a perfect display of himself, his movements. Though she knows him well, and she knows he’s not focusing on himself at all right now, not while he’s doing this, fucking into her with a practiced force she knows tried and true, yet never grows sick of.

Bruce slaps her again, though his hand remains flat against her cheek, holding her jaw and her cheeks at the points where they hollow in his forceful grip, so as to angle her face downwards, showing her where their bodies connect. The sight is obscene—his cock relentlessly stiff as he forces it in and out of her wet channel.

His gait begins to falter as her tongue slides against his fingers and her walls clench around him, and he’s becoming very aware of his wavering restrain. It’s nearly staggering, and she knows it too, as his thrusts and plunges grow sloppier. His breath is much looser too, his resolute grunts and moans falling much more freely than he’d like them to. So he mutes himself as best as he can, taking the bare skin of her neck between his teeth to bite into. The cry she lets out is forgiven, purely because he doesn’t even register it on his own—too distracted by the taste of the sweat on her skin. His teeth abuse the thin juncture between her neck and shoulder, tendons and muscles flexed taut as his tongue soothes the assaulted skin, until a different, coppery sort of flavor finds its way on his palate.

He retracts from her in that sudden moment, eyes flicking over to the mirror behind her to confirm his suspicions, that he’d broken her skin and bitten until she bled. She doesn’t realize herself, not until her eyes flutter open from his abrupt stillness to find his lips stained red.

And, truthfully, he shouldn’t be surprised at her reaction. At the wild expression she’s got on, the ravenous grin as she all but lurches for him, hands grasping the sides of his face to draw his lips to hers, to taste herself and her vitality.

Something of the raw filth of it, of the exchange. Her lips, her teeth, her tongue, her blood, all clouding his mind in a salacious haze. And though he’d brought it on the both of them, this divine new wisdom, it still felt like she had gained the upper hand, somehow. It felt treacherous, the power she held over him, the discipline she stole from him, whether it was intentional or not. The jerking of his hips begins to sputter, and he’s quick enough to wrench his hand out from around her and down to her wet cunt, where he grazes his fingers against her until she’s close to coming undone, until she very much is.

His resolve crumbles, absolutely finished, as he slowly empties himself beside her, carrying her through her own climax just the same.

And he stays, because it’s nice. The way her fingers toy with the shorter strands of his hair, at the nape of his neck, as she catches her breath, as he catches his. The embrace doesn’t feel overstayed or unwanted—it is comfort in the purest sense.

Eventually, they do remember the reality of the situation. The location, the event, all forgone until the bliss wears off and the awareness sets in. Bruce takes her hand, much like the gentleman he presents himself to be, and helps her up off the counter.

“Mmm,” she groans, squeezing his arm as she regains her footing. “My back hurts.”

“What from?”

“The sink,” she pouts, as if it wasn’t obvious. “You’re really mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs, lips finding the top of her head to press a chaste kiss to. “You love it.”


End file.
